When he asked again, “Do I know you?” the hard edge to his tone said he’d known trouble before, and he was prepared to handle any that crossed his path.
“Ish,” Calamity responded with a calm Poppy definitely wasn’t feeling as she dropped back to her haunches and padded toward him on soft kitty feet. “Are you who I think you are?”
“Who do you think I am and why are you rooting around in my garbage?” he asked, locking gazes with Poppy.
His glare made her stand taller, even though she was only five feet and one-half inch, if you didn’t count her six-inch platforms. Why he’d chosen her out of the pack of women to shoot his hateful stares at took her by surprise. But she squared her shoulders anyway and glared right back.
She probably looked like an idiot doing it in her torn Paul Stanley leggings, afro wig, and big clunky platform boots, but whatever. Nobody intimidated Poppy McGuillicuddy. She might be tiny, but she was damn well mighty.
Calamity sniffed the air around this delicious, if not possibly dangerous man and made a clucking noise in the back of her throat. “Yep. I think he’s our guy, girls.”
“Ooo, lucky Poppy!” Marty chirped, patting her on the back in approval. “Nice coup, kiddo.”
Planting his hands on lean hips encased in tighter-than-tight jeans, his eyebrow rose. Just one, but it was a perfectly groomed, raven-tipped one. “Your guy?”
“Oh, stop playing coy with us, Mr. Smexy,” Calamity cooed, winding her tail around his ankle and purring a thick, sultry sound in the back of her throat. “You know why we’re here.”
His lips thinned when he crossed his arms over his burly chest. “Explain yourself.”
Calamity reached upward with her front paws, planting them on his knees and stretching as she tilted her head to look up at him. “I’m here to hand-deliver your new familiar, Sexy Pants. Make sure when the powers that be send out that survey, you remember to mention how timely I was. It counts for points toward a new travel tote. If you give me a five-star rating, it’ll push me right over the top, and that tote’ll be mine in no time flat.”
“Ahh,” he muttered, driving a wide hand through his thick, dark hair with a raspy sigh. “I should have known. You’re from Familiar Central.”
“Yep,” Calamity declared, dropping down and dancing about on all four of her dainty paws. “So show us where to go so we can get settled and then we’ll all sit down and have a nice little getting-to-know-you session. Also, if you have some tuna handy, I’d appreciate the shit out of a bowl—packed in water only, please. This has been one of the longest nights of my fekkin’ life. Do you have any idea how exhausting it is to induct a familiar? Especially a newb. Jesus and a popsicle. It’s more paperwork than leasing a damn car.”
Marty scooped up Calamity and tucked her under her arm, sticking her other hand out to the stranger. “Introductions are in order. I’m Marty Flaherty. The bully you froze on the spot—thank you for that, by the way—is Nina Statleon. Behind me is Wanda Jefferson, and the woman clinging to Wanda as though she were the last pint of H?agen-Dazs on earth is Poppy McGuillicuddy, your new familiar.”
He lifted his square chin with a dimple in it and nodded with a curt bob of his dark head. “I know who she is. Now take her and your friend here and go the hell away. I’ve already told Familiar Central I’m good. So, if you’ll excuse me, ladies, have a good night.”
And with that, he was gone.
As in, took his gorgeous self and disappeared into the ether, leaving behind only the scent of ozone and sardines.
Well, that was a fine how-do-ya-do.
Chapter 4
Poppy looked at the women, stunned, her fingers twining together to find her palms cold and clammy. “So was that what we, in my human circle, call the big dis? I think we’d better go back to Familiar Central and get in the line labeled Rejected By A Total Douche Witch, because if there’s one thing he doesn’t want, I’d say a familiar is on the top of the list.”
Calamity rasped a sigh, moving in and out of Nina’s still unmoving form. “Sometimes they’re reluctant. Case in point, my half-breed. She hated my guts at first.”
“And this thing you guys are in the throes of right now is called what? Mad-like? Because I’m afraid to know what hated your guts meant,” Poppy wondered out loud, shifting from foot to foot.
“We’re in the throes of making shit work because we have no choice but to make things work. I refer back to my Scottish castle hell as a point of reference. I’d rather be with these loony-toon bitches in all their perfume and mascara than with some old, crusty dude who doesn’t wear any underwear beneath his musty robes.”
Sure, that scenario sounded crappy, but how much crappier could it be than being hated by a hot guy with a shitty attitude—for life?
“But did the sheep like you?”